


A Cool Chest for Comfort

by sparrow445



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27734080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow445/pseuds/sparrow445
Summary: Matthew and Diana have a welcomed a third child to the Bishop-Clairmont family, Abigail.They hope that a Thanksgiving spent in Madison, NY with Sarah will be a much needed respite from their hectic lives, but Fate has other ideas.
Relationships: Diana Bishop/Matthew Clairmont
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	A Cool Chest for Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the characters in the All-Souls Trilogy. But I do love them all dearly, and only want the best for them!

After a particularly challenging year juggling my work teaching mildly enthusiastic undergraduates, overly energetic graduate students, and defiantly prejudice members of the Congregation, along with raising three-year-old twins, a six-month old baby girl, and taking up my position in Matthew’s budding scion, I was praying that this mini-vacation back to Madison, NY would be the perfect escape. Matthew and I had been looking forward to hiding away from our responsibilities and celebrating Thanksgiving with our children. 

On our flight over from France on Sunday night, it looked as though Fate was going to be kind enough to grant us this much needed reprieve. The twins, Rebecca and Phillip, and our youngest and newest addition, Abigail, slept soundly on the seven-hour overnight flight. (Jack and Marcus were planning on joining us later in the week.) In the peace and quiet, I finished grading the last of my undergraduate midterm papers and got a start on a novel. I know what you're thinking: who has time to read a novel for pelasure anymore? Me! I do! Or at least I did on that flight.

Matthew wasn’t quite as relaxed as the kids and I, with old de Clairmont and new Bishop-Clairmont financial records sprawled side by side on the table. But, the farther we got from France, the more the lines on his face relaxed, and by the time we landed he was more than happy to tuck the papers safely in a briefcase that he swore he won’t open for the rest of the trip. 

Fate, however, is a fickle friend, and our bliss was short lived. 

On Tuesday, in the middle of the night, a high, sharp scream pierced through the quiet of the Bishop house. 

“The children!” I sat bolt up in my bead. 

Matthew was gone from my side in a flash. 

Fear and panick surging through me, I sprinted out of the room, down the hall, and into the children’s room. 

Rebecca. Phillip. Abigail. My eyes scanned over the three children, all present and accounted for. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. 

At the sound, Rebecca and Phillip turned to look at me. There were no tears in their eyes, but Rebecca wore a look of disdain at being so rudely awoken. Phillip on the other hand wore a look of concern for the poor individual who was making the awful sound. 

“Ssh, _mon chou. C’est bien. Calme._ ” Matthew was gently rocking a red-faced, sweaty Abigail. She thrashed against her father, trying to escape. 

Striding across the room, I placed my hand on Matthew’s back. For most couples my simple gesture would be a sign of letting him know that I’ve arrived on the scene, but with Matthew’s heightened vampire senses he knew where I was at all times. My hand on his back let Matthew know that we are in this adventure-people-call-parenting together. 

His hand went to the hair on Abigail’s head pulling her closer to his chest as he looked back at me. 

“Why don't you take her to our room,” I suggested. 

“Yes.” He put his mouth close to Abigail’s ear and whispered sweet French nothings to the still screaming child on his way out. 

I coaxed Rebecca and Phillip back to sleep with kisses and reassurances that "Abby is going to be fine," and made my way down the hall to our room. 

There I found Matthew sitting on the edge of bed, Abigail on his lap whimpering and clutching his shirt. The minute her tearful red eyes saw me, she reached out for me. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” I took her from Matthew. “What’s the matter?” 

“She’s running a temperature.” Whenever one of the children feels sick, Matthew walks the fine line between father and doctor. In this moment, I was seeing Dr. Matthew Clairmont. 

“Will she be okay?” 

“Infants run temperatures. Their immune systems are still developing and fight against anything and everything by spiking a fever. It’s probably a stress reaction to the flight, or Tabitha, or a strange American bug.” He suggests the last option with a twinkle of humor in his eye. 

His attempt at humor did nothing to quell my worry. 

“She’ll be alright, _mon coeur_.” It was his turn to place a comforting hand on my back, just below the arched brand. It’s normal place. “We just keep her cool for now, and the fever will resolve itself.” 

“That’s your medical advice?”

“Call her pediatrician if you like. He’ll tell you the same thing.” 

Matthew held his phone up to me knowing that I wouldn’t call our son, Marcus, at this late hour. I might be questioning Matthew’s medical advice right now, but I trust him unconditionally when it comes to our children. If he says all we can do for Abigail right now is to keep her cool, then that’s what we’ll do. 

* * * 

When Sarah woke up at seven the next morning, Matthew and I were thoroughly exhausted. We had been up all night running bathes for Abigail, hoping the water would lower her temperature. 

I managed to get an hour of sleep when Abigail spent an hour with her eyes closed curled into Matthew's chest (he'd had to change his sweater twice with becasue Abigail kept soaking them with her tears). The minute she opened her eyes and started whimpering—letting us know her temperature was going back up—I was awake and running another bath. 

We had finally migrated from the bedroom to the kitchen when Sarah appeared. “Does she need a poultice?” 

“It’s a simple fever. We’ll give it a little more time before we try a poultice.” I wasn’t against using magic to ease my children’s illnesses, but I still used it as more of a last resort. Human children all did fine without magic to cure their fevers; my children will, too. 

“Mama!!” The shout came from upstairs. 

“And that’s my cue.” I handed Abigail to a waiting Matthew and heaved myself up from the table. "A mother’s work is never done." 

As the day wore on, Abigail didn’t show any signs of improving. She wasn’t getting any worse, which was a small consolation, but my heart couldn’t bear to see her in a state of sick-limbo. Add to that that Madison, NY was experiencing a rare November snowfall, and I had two overly excited three-year-old twins to entertain. I was forced to leave the role of doctor to Matthew as Sarah and I took Rebecca and Philip outside for the afternoon. 

Rebecca and Philip squealed with joy as Sarah made the snow dance around them, and though I smiled at their joy, I thought about Matthew in the house with Abigail. 

My husband, Matthew Clairmont, was known throughout the vampire world for his incredibly short temper, punctuated by his blood-rage and his history as a fierce warrior. However, when it came to our children, Matthew was never anything but the doting father. One look from Rebecca or Abigail could turn him mush: those little girls had him wrapped around their fingers. And a request to “fly” from Philip could turn into hours of Matthew throwing him around the great room at Les Revenants, Philip squealing with delight and smiles on both their faces. So I knew that seeing Abigail so uncomfortable, plagued with fever, was painful to Matthew. 

He was placing a fierce amount of trust in his knowledge of modern medicine. His first son, Lucas, had died from a fever back in sixth century. And yet, Matthew knew that all that could be done for Lucas then—waiting, praying, cooling him down with a wet washcloth—was all that should be done for Abigail now. 

“Mama. Mama!” Rebecca’s calls pulled me from my thoughts. 

“Yes, sweat pea?” I crouched down so my eyes were level with hers. 

“Look.” She held her Yale-blue, mittened hands up to show me that they were soaked through from the snow. The pout on her lips threaten to spill over into a cry. 

“No crying,” I told her. “If you want to keep playing, we just have to get you new mittens. Right?” 

Rebecca nodded furiously. 

“She can have mine, Mama.” Philip was already pulling his mittens off to give to his sister. 

“Yay!” Rebecca’s wet mittens landed in the snow, forgotten. 

“Rebecca Bishop-Clairmont!” I admonished. “That is not what we say when someone gives us a gift.” 

The pout reappeared on her face, and she looked away from me to Sarah. 

Sarah shook her head and pointed back to me. 

“What do you say to your brother?” I prompted. 

“Thank you, Pip.” 

“You’re welcome.” Philip’s smile indicated he was quite pleased with himself at remembering what to say in response. 

“Good, Rebecca. Now, you can go back to playing. You too, Philip. I’ll go get you some new gloves, so you can stay outside.” 

The incident forgotten, the twins ran back to Sarah, eager to catch more snowflakes. 

As I headed up the stairs into the house, I was taken aback by the silence. The past 12 hours had been filled with cries and whimperings of a sick sixth-month-old. But now, there was blissful silence. 

The mittens forgotten, I walked through the kitchen and into the living room to investigate. I was greeted by the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. 

My 6’3” vampire husband was lying on the couch, shirtless cradling our diaper-clad daughter on his chest. His eyes were closed, alseep. 

Abigail had cocked her head up on Matthew's chest to stare up at him. She was smiling, no longer red-faced or sweating. Her fever had broke, and she seemed to have push the memory of the whole night behind her. She would let out contented, quiet squeaks whenever Matthew's chest rose with his low, gravelly snores. 

I chuckled softly at the solution that had eluded us for the past 12 hours. Skin-to-skin contact was a remedy to most infant ailments, and indeed we had tried that between myself and Abigail at various points throughout the night. But we had not tried placing Abigail against Matthew’s stone-cold skin, which undoubtedly brought a constant source of relief for the fevered infant. Matthew had hit upon a remedy that human parents would die for. 

I tried to back out of the room to leave father and daughter to their rest. But the house wouldn't let me. A creaking floorboard gave me away, and Abigail turned her head towards me. Matthew, sleeping like the dead, didn't move.

I cross the room and crouch down next to the couch, lower my face so that I'm level with Abigail. Her bright brown eyes, which she inherited from Matthew, stare back at me.

"You're feeling better, missy? Huh?" I rub her back. She smiles in response. "Yeah. I bet you are. Daddy makes everyone feel better." 

"Mmm," rolls unconsciously out of the still sleeping-Matthew. 

I smile at his contented purr, and stand up.

"That's what daddies are for." I place a loving, grateful kiss on Matthew's forehead. Then another more tender one his cheek. His head instinctively rolls towards me, ever the gentle sleeping giant. 

Sarah and I manage to keep the twins quiet when we come back in the house, giving Matthew his much needed sleep. I continue to check on Abigail through the afternoon and dinner, but she never seems to want to leave the cool comfort of his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> French translations:  
>  _Mon chou. C’est bien. Calme._ : My sweetie. It's alright. Calm down.  
>  _Mon coeur_ : My heart.


End file.
